


Whiskey River, Take my Mind

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, I saw their faces again and my brain melted, Mayhem feels, Mexico, Smut, also I provide some personal insights into the Miles of 2.10, invented scene the night after the initial meeting with Connor, mild spoilers for 2.10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back at the bar while Bass waits for Connor, Miles and Rachel end up in each other's laps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey River, Take my Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Willie Nelson's "Whiskey River" (1973).

Miles senses Rachel looking, is aware of how long he’s been fixated on his whiskey, so strangely dark and leggy in the tumbler it could be coffee syrup. It's almost Zeppelin's hue, his old mare from the Republic days, burned near-black around the edges but, when bathed in sunlight, shimmering chestnut. Zep taught him to ride by measuring the tension between his calves and across her withers. Damn, he misses that horse. The world’s daintiest feet, but nothing could unsettle her in battle. Leaving her was almost as bad as leaving the city he helped build. But Zep’s crisp-fried now, just like everybody else who got caught in the crossfire of his spat with Monroe.

Bass says it’s all Miles fault – Emma being dead, Connor being a smug-lipped thug – and you know, you probably _could_ trace everything back to Miles if you went windy enough with your ballpoint, especially if you plowed right through those pesky walls like Charlie used to when she’d do mazes with her uncle at Christmas. He never cared she was breaking the rules, was too zonked out on pain and booze, and he just liked the way she smelled like innocence: sweet, jammy, unwashed.

“Miles,” comes his name from between Rachel's curled, pink lips. She looks surprised when he blinks, as if she wasn't sure he was real.

Maybe he just looks like the hell he feels. His skin is hot and sticky, and he can imagine the blue circles under his sagging eyes. Bring on the maggots. There’s got to be some out back at a joint like this – you know, where they slaughter the dogs and call it beef.

“Where’s Bass?” Miles inquires automatically. He can feel her flinch from here.

“At the bar. Asking after Connor. What are we doing here again?”

Again meaning at the bar for the second night in a row. Miles doesn’t blame her for being angry. He can’t really let himself dwell on _all_ the reasons why; that’s the only way he and Rachel can work. He reaches underneath the table to the leg of her chair and scrapes it across the wooden planks till her knees are parked between his legs.

“Hi,” he greets. She looks extra sleek in black pants and jacket. If his mouth weren't so dry, he'd salivate. When his restless hands land on her thighs, his brain ticks briefly to that time in the tent. _Do you know how bad this is going to get for you? Do you think I care?_

“Getting cute? Had too much liquor?” It takes him a moment to translate this through his brain fog. And no, it's not the booze. 

“I can hold my whiskey, er, mud. Whatever the hell they’re passing as quality rye.”

Her thigh muscles twitch beneath his fingers and something rumbles in him in answer. Eying Bass’ wayward curls at the bar, he weighs his options. Connor’s not here yet. They can probably risk a minute or two.

The wise and lovely mouth informs him, “I know that look on your face. In a moment, you'll either hatch a war or a golden egg. Which is it?”

“Come on, Rachel. I’m no hen.” 

“Oh? Does that make you my cock?”

“Why don’t you come a little closer and find out,” he growls, feeling foolish and green.

Rachel bites her bottom lip against a smile and inches her knee in the minutest distance so it’s flush against the seam of his crotch. Miles grabs his whiskey and tosses it back. When he curls his fingers around Rachel’s tumbler, her warm digits invade his.

“Uh-uh. Mine.”

She snatches and drains it. _Fuck_. Perfect porcelain skin framed by magisterial blonde waves.

He leans in, increasing the warmth and pressure of her knee; blood pools. _Fuck, Bass. He’ll still be here in a minute_.

“Wanna go see where they slaughter the dogs?” he asks, rising.

She frowns. “What are you-”

But he’s already swept her out the back door. Behind them is open field, and the idea of exposing himself to the wiles of the wilderness makes him nervous enough that he positions his back against the adobe building, pulling her into him. Trailing his lips from the softness of hers to the elegant slope where her neck meets shoulder, he scans for dimples in the landscape. No cartel yet. 

He’s got her pants open, but he’s not getting in – not from this angle – so he extracts cock from pants, and holding down her panties, rubs the head of his penis into her clit. She always liked that anyway and almost immediately collapses forward, her teeth against his neck. He licks his fingers and works some spit into the equation. He's starting to drip.

“Miles,” she gasps, both arms flung around his neck and panting. She’s so lost in it, she’s not even seeking his lips. That’s how he knows it’s good.

Introducing a few broader strokes for himself, he lets the meeting of silky skin do the rest.

“Harder, goddammit,” she demands in a voice so adorably pinched, he chuckles. “Yeah. Yeah,” she’s coming, bucking against his head so hard that his brain flashes desperate with the urge to be inside her.

Still gasping into his ear, she must sense his frustration but remains practical, “I’m not taking my pants off. Not out here.”

Before he can even whimper his frustration, she’s down on her knees, pulling, pumping, inviting him into the wet, hot roughness of her mouth. She’s not being all that careful – hell, she’s probably madder than she’s letting on about this trip – so whenever she catches the edge of a tooth on his skin he practically peeps. Maybe he is a hen.

He buries his fingers in her hair and yanks, lolling his head back – not checking again for the damn cartel. _Fuck them and Bass._ Miles has got to come. It’s so good, except _shit_ , snagged again on her tooth. And uhhh. He seizes up and starts twitching, but she’s evicted him. 

“Can’t have people thinking I’m your whore,” she explains, swiping at her mouth. She doesn't want cum on her face. Fair enough.

He wrings himself out in the grass, bent over, while she watches – her saucer eyes like the moon but midnight blue in the darkness. Maybe he looks lonely or disappointed when he's done, because she sighs a little and pulls his hips back toward her to suck him one last time. He sinks down onto his knees in front of her and pulls her into his chest. She's all hay and leather.

Trembling a little – he’s still weak from the lingering poison in his system – he murmurs the melancholy that is welling up in his chest, mingling with the almost unbearable affection he feels for this woman:

“Sorry I brought you here. Just need you near me. Can't be away from you anymore.”

Her lips graze his clammy temple, as she reaches down to help him zip back up. “Miles. I’ve never seen you so lost. What the hell are you _doing_ with Bass?”

“I told you, I-”

“You haven’t told me a damn thing.” As she stands, he takes in her face. She doesn’t look nearly as severe as she sounds...more concerned. She extends her slender fingers to him. “Come on, honey. You look like you could use a hand.”


End file.
